Moving Day 2: Return of the Flatmate
by katkin
Summary: Sequel to Moving Day. After 18 months of living apart, John returns to Baker Street with a broken heart, but is Sherlock as uncaring as he seems?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, and welcome to the sequel to Moving Day. This can stand alone, but Moving Day is only a two-parter so you might as well read it if you haven't already. Go on, you know you want to ;-)

K x

* * *

It had been 18 months since Sherlock had been rudely defeated by the washing machine. He often caught it staring at him with its large glass eye. It had unnerved him, until he came to his senses and remembered it was simply a washing machine. It had been a lesson and he had tamed it. He was the overall winner.

Over the past 18 months, Sherlock had surprised himself at how easy it was to do all the domestic stuff that John had insisted on doing when they had lived together. John would always huff about it; the hoovering, the washing up. Sherlock couldn't understand John's irritation. It was mundane but relatively straightforward. He'd even begun to pride himself on the way he could now make a cup of tea at the same time as doing something else, just the way John used to do.

On a wet October afternoon, Sherlock lay on his sofa, pretending to read a magazine as he thought about his current case. After John had moved out, Sherlock had found that Mrs Hudson felt inclined to speak to him if he wasn't showing signs of doing something else, hence his developed skill in fake-reading.

His thoughts were barely interrupted by the bang of the front door, followed by the unmistakable sound of John Watson making his way up to the first floor. Sherlock's eyes remained on the page as the man arrived in the doorway.

"Real-reading or fake-reading?"

"Fake-reading," replied the baritone voice from behind the magazine.

"What's got you thinking?" John asked, crossing to the sofa and lifting the other man's feet so he could sit himself down. Sherlock lowered the magazine and regarded John. His face looked tired and although he was smiling at his friend, the smile didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock glanced at the John's hands placed gently but awkwardly on Sherlock's ankles. The magazine was raised again.

"You didn't come here to hear about my latest case."

"No, no you're right I didn't." The pair sat in silence for a moment. Sherlock placed the magazine on his stomach and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling while John tapped absentmindedly on Sherlock's feet in his lap. "Go put the kettle on," John spoke up eventually, and Sherlock swung his legs over and made his way to the kitchen.

"Tea or coffee?" Sherlock asked as he walked away.

"Guess." That was John's usual reply, but it made Sherlock chuckle nonetheless.

"So she kicked you out," came the voice from the kitchen. John scowled on the sofa.

"No, I left actually," he called back indignantly.

"Hmm."

John rolled his eyes and waited for Sherlock to reappear. He carried two mugs with him into the living room and splashed John with tea as he handed him a mug.

"I wanted coffee."

"Tough."

They sat in a comfortable silence, sipping their tea. Both men rested their heads on the back of the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. After a while, John turned his head towards Sherlock.

"Can I move back in?"

Sherlock considered this for a brief moment before turning his head to regard John.

"I suppose. If you admit that the past eighteen months have been a terrible mistake, and that I was right all along."

"What? No."

"Say the words, John."

"No," John huffed. "Sherlock, it wasn't a mistake. It's been a learning curve for both of us. It just didn't work out."

"For you," Sherlock added smugly. "It didn't work out for you. I've been perfectly fine on my own."

It was true. Sherlock was capable of living on his own. Much more capable, it would seem, than John was of living with a woman. Sherlock was the victor. He smiled to himself.

"I'm never going to get rid of you, am I?" John said, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"No." At least he was honest. They sat quietly for a moment before Sherlock spoke up. "Let me think about it."

John looked puzzled.

"Think about what?"

"Letting you move back in." John scoffed at this and opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock continued to speak. "I know it was over a year ago, but you abandoned me, and I found that highly hurtful and inconvenient."

John sighed loudly and then took a sip of his tea.

"May I at least stay tonight while you think about it? I literally have nowhere else to go," John finished quietly. This change in tone provoked Sherlock's curiosity and he spent a brief moment studying John. John flinched under the scrutiny.

"You left in a hurry," Sherlock stated. John stared blankly at him, waiting for the elaboration which was bound to come. "You didn't bring anything with you."

"Maybe I didn't want to be presumptuous," John retorted, picking at his sleeve. No, there was more to it than that, Sherlock mused. John had left his flat on a drizzly October evening without a coat. Judging by the dampness of his hair and jumper, Sherlock knew John had gotten the tube rather than a cab, so he had his Oyster card on him at least. John had left his flat with a purposeful march to the tube station rather than a reluctant wander down the street in the hope of hailing a cab. Sherlock was pleased. John had wanted to come to Baker Street. It was just a shame that John looked so sad.

"You're upset."

"What? No...Maybe. It doesn't matter." He let out a long, staggered breath and stared up at the ceiling, hoping that Sherlock's mind would take him back to his case. Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to find staring at John much more entertaining.

"She's been seeing someone else." The words were spoken to the ceiling and sounded loud in the otherwise quiet room. They were followed by a scornful groan. "I dunno, maybe part of me knew all along but couldn't quite face up to it, because that kind of thing doesn't happen in real life to people like me. Cheating," he spoke the word bitterly. "But unfortunately, to be more honest, I hadn't got a fucking clue because I'm a prize idiot."

"You're not an idiot John," Sherlock spoke quietly. Of course, he _was_ an idiot. But not about this. He was a wonderful, trusting man who had fallen in love. He wouldn't be the first man or the last to be in this situation. It had made him blind, but not an idiot. In fact, if anyone was the idiot, Sherlock decided, it was Sarah though he knew it probably would be best to let that comment go. He felt John's eyes on him, and leant forward uncomfortably, reaching for his mug.

"What?"

"What?"

They stared at each other and then Sherlock looked away.

"Did you...Hang on...You knew! Didn't you?" John said in disbelief. Sherlock nodded after a pause. "Oh for f– Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Because it's none of my business! Besides, I was rather hoping that you would find your way back here which you did. Predictable, John, predictable. I didn't want to ruin the chances so I kept quiet. People have a nasty habit of shooting the messenger." Sherlock slurped his tea, signalling he'd finished his brief explanation.

John sat, blinking at Sherlock. He felt like the man had physically struck him in the face.

"How _fucking_ selfish!" he exclaimed. Sherlock gave a little frown of confusion.

"Well, yes. I am selfish, John. This isn't news to you."

"So, you haven't got the slightest bit of guilt?"

"What? I never said that. I feel guilty. But the selfishness outweighs the guilt. So, there you go. Anyway, you're back here now, so no harm done. And I've decided to let you stay indefinitely," Sherlock said firmly with a smile. He knew that he was pushing his luck. John looked hurt and rather fraught. Sherlock hoped the news might make his friend feel a little better. They sat there in a long, awkward silence.

"How did you know?"

Know what? Oh. Sherlock thought they'd finished the previous conversation.

"Well there were several clear signs John; the main one being that Sarah hasn't been able to look me in the eye for the past six weeks."

There was a sharp intake of breath.

"Six...six weeks? You've known for six weeks?" John let out a sound which was a mixture between a laugh and a sob. "I could cry."

Sherlock grimaced.

"Lovely. Well, I'll leave you to that. I am supposed to be working after all," Sherlock rose from the sofa and grabbed his coat. "Unless you'd like to come along?" he asked suggestively. John frowned and looked down at his knees, shaking his head sadly.

"I don't think I can move."

"Suit yourself. If you find you _can_ move in the near future then we need some milk." And with that Sherlock headed for the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The drizzle had turned to heavy rain as Sherlock stood gracefully from a black cab and shut the door loudly behind him. He glanced up at the red brick building in front of him. _Four windows across, six windows up. _He smiled at the light which glowed out into the street.

Making his way up the concrete steps, he was pleased to pass a resident who held the outer door open for him in a nonchalant yet impatient manor. Sherlock gave a confident nod of thanks and entered into the warm, welcoming lobby of the apartment building. He headed for the stairs.

Number 17 greeted him in shiny silver numerals. He heard the muffled sound of a female voice, followed by a laugh. Sherlock gave a definite tap on the door with his knuckles. The laugh stopped suddenly and moments later the door was opened to reveal a startled Sarah Sawyer.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock took this as an invitation to enter and brushed passed her into the flat. She closed the door in a fluster and hurried after him into the living room where she found Sherlock staring intently down at her guest who stared back at him from the sofa.

"Wow, you _really_ don't hang about do you Sarah? It's been, what, four hours?"

"Sarah, who's this?" asked the dark haired man, eyeing Sherlock in confusion.

"Ah, no one. May I have a word please, Sherlock? In private," she said through gritted teeth, dragging him into the next room and then glaring at him furiously.

"How dare you just barge in here!"

"How dare _you_ break my best friend's heart!" he snapped back. To her credit, she appeared to look regretful at least. "You are a nasty woman. I don't like you. In fact I have never liked you. There, I said it. I only pretended to be nice for John's sake."

"That was you pretending to be _nice_? You need to work on your acting, Sherlock," Sarah scoffed. His face dropped at her clearly ridiculous statement. Sarah's pale cheeks were flushed in anger, though Sherlock was certain she'd had at least two glasses of wine. They glared at each other.

"Pack a bag," Sherlock demanded.

"What?" Sarah stammered, looking suddenly alarmed. It took most of Sherlock's efforts not to roll his eyes. Honestly, why were people such idiots sometimes?

"Not for you, for John. Pack a bag for John. As for the rest of his things you can pack them up too and he'll collect them while you're at work so he doesn't have remind himself of what a bitch looks like. Oh, and speaking of work, John will not be handing in his notice. He shouldn't have to. This is your doing. Instead, you'll make him redundant."

Sarah scoffed at this, and placed her hands on her hips. It was all becoming rather surreal.

"I can't do that Sherlock. I don't have the power to do that."

"Well, let me put it this way, if you don't make John redundant, then _I _will make _you_ redundant and you will find it much harder than him to find work. Believe me when I say that I _do_ have the power to do that."

Sarah gave a growl of irritation and stormed off towards the bedroom – the bedroom she shared with John only a few hours earlier – to pack a few things. Sherlock decided to take this opportunity to get to know John's successor. He wandered casually into the living room and sat himself down beside the puzzled man on the sofa.

"Hello."

"Hello," the man replied warily.

"Are you stupid?" Sherlock asked bluntly. "Look around you. Surely you've noticed that a man lives here? The most obvious clue being the Gilette razor in the bathroom," he paused suddenly and bellowed over his shoulder in the direction of the bedroom, "Gilette razor, Sarah!" He smiled in satisfaction and turned back to his conversation. "Do you have a best friend?"

"Uh...yes." The man swallowed loudly in apparent fear that this strange man was trying to befriend him.

"Good. Keep in touch with him, won't you. Don't let him fade away into the background, because in twelve to eighteen months you're going to need him. I just wanted to wish you luck."

Sherlock offered his hand and the man shook it in uncertainty. As Sarah carried a holdall into the living room, Sherlock rose from the sofa and crossed over to her.

"I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Oh grow up, Sherlock. He'll get over it," she muttered to the floor.

"Yes, of course he will, obviously. That's not the point. He really loved you."

"But he always managed to love you that little bit more didn't he," Sarah shot back. Sherlock blinked at her. Was that true? Yes, he'd phoned John regularly when he'd first moved out, and always insisted that he accompany him on the particularly gory cases that might need a medical eye. He had taken some of John's time but not all of it. He was his friend after all. Maybe Sherlock had just been lonely. But he hadn't gone out of his way to ruin their relationship. Had he? He couldn't remember. It was all irrelevant now. Anyway, he'd got want he'd wanted, whether he'd set out to get it or not.

"That's very clever," Sherlock said as Sarah wrenched open the door, "Deflecting the blame like that. I'm sure it'll help you sleep tonight. If, of course, sleeping is what you have planned."

"Get out Sherlock," Sarah said wearily and he obeyed. His fun was over. Before she had chance to close the door, Sherlock lowered his voice and told her the words that he'd planned to say as he'd made his journey in the taxi, even though he didn't think she deserved to hear them.

"I feel sorry for you. Very soon you're going to look around and the loving, caring, funny man that was once by your side isn't going to be there anymore, and you're going to feel very alone and very _stupid_ for not doing anything to prevent that. _Trust_ me."

The door was slammed behind him. He gave a nod of achievement and headed back home.

* * *

When John returned from the shop, Sherlock was lying on the sofa in his dressing gown, typing on his phone. He didn't raise his eyes to acknowledge John, so John headed for the kitchen to pack the shopping away and put the kettle on.

"All sorted?" he asked as he headed for his armchair. Sherlock looked at him blankly. "The case...is it sorted?"

"Yes, yes...It's over," Sherlock said resolutely. John gave a nod and smiled at him. His eyes fell onto the holdall by the side of the sofa.

"Hey, is that...?" He crouched beside the sofa and wrenched open the zip. "Was Sarah here?"

"Yes," Sherlock lied bluntly to his phone. John looked at Sherlock for some desperate elaboration but it didn't come. Forcefully, he flung Sherlock's legs from the sofa and sat down heavily, refusing to break his gaze from Sherlock until he looked up from his phone.

"Well? What did she say?"

" 'Hello.' "

"And?"

" 'Can you give this to John?' "

John sat back against the sofa and let out a long breath. He felt incredibly drained and emotionally exhausted by the day's events.

"Was that it?" he muttered quietly, more to himself than Sherlock. Sherlock gave a groan and threw his phone down. He scrambled up on the sofa so he could face John with a hard stare.

"John, what were you expecting? An apology? One of those obnoxious clichés? 'It's not you, it's me!' Well, maybe it wasn't her, maybe it _was _you. Do you really want to pull at that thread? Let it go. It's getting old."

John sniffed indignantly, though he was not surprised at Sherlock's lack of emotional support. He didn't think it was getting old. It had only been six hours. They'd been together for years and it was all over in a flash. It was so typical of Sherlock not to understand the pain of detachment. John scowled and then rose from the sofa towards the kettle.

"You're right. I'm back here now. It's time to move on."

"You should never have left in the first place," Sherlock muttered. John popped his head around the kitchen door.

"What was that?"

"I said 'You're welcome,'" Sherlock replied with a tight smile. John rolled his eyes.

Two coffees were placed onto the table and John huffed as he had to move Sherlock's legs yet again to sit down.

"So I suppose I should be planning my resignation letter. Do you think 'Dear Spiteful Whore' is an appropriate term of address?"

"It's a strong opening," Sherlock agreed. "I'd hold off writing anything yet though. Let's not talk about this anymore. I'm hungry." He grabbed his mobile and John sat listening to him order food for the both of them.

As they ate, Sherlock ventured a topic.

"I suppose you'll have more time on your hands now?"

"Until I can find a new job."

"Hmm."

They ate in silence for a long moment until Sherlock wrenched his phone from his pocket, clicked open a photograph and slid it across the table. John picked up the phone, puzzled.

"What is...Urgh, God. Sherlock that's disgusting, did you have to show me that while I'm eating?"

"Sorry," Sherlock said with a grin. He clearly wasn't. "What do you reckon? Fancy going to the morgue tomorrow? New day, new flatmate, new case."

"Old flatmate. Actually I prefer 'returned' flatmate," John corrected. "Maybe. We'll see."

Sherlock was disappointed by John's unenthusiastic response.

"Oh...well, it's probably not your scene. The police found the body in connection with a drug's ring in Battersea. It might be a bit dangerous."

They stared at each other. Sherlock's tragic use of reverse psychology was evident to them both. John scoffed and shoved a mouthful of food into his mouth.

"You're a dick," he mumbled, mid-chew. Sherlock laughed loudly.

"So you'll come?"

John sighed in resignation.

"Oh, go on then. You might need my help."

Sherlock banged both palms on the table in celebration and grinned widely. He had won, and in more ways than one. John had found his way back to where he belonged.

The End.


End file.
